


The Right Allocations

by campholmes



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Christmas Party !, F/M, Hot Sex, clueless horny brian, short skirt/long jacket inspired one night stand AU, snappy attitudinal katya, trans woman katya cis man trixie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12001215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campholmes/pseuds/campholmes
Summary: It takes him a good three minutes to remember his account number because he keeps looking over at the back of her head-- she has a red leaf sticking in her hair and her shoulder pads cut a dramatic line across her back. She’s short even in heels, much shorter than him, and she leans up against the counter on her elbows, gets all up in the teller’s face with her smoker’s breath.A one night stand (not really) set in 1995 Dallas, TX. inspired by Cake's 'Short Skirt/Long Jacket.'





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a short 1995 au based off of cake’s short skirt/long jacket. trans katya and cis brian f. ((featuring: a meeting at citibank, a one night stand, fast, thorough, sharp-as-a-tack womanhood, and uninterrupted prosperity)). happy labor day.

“Can I borrow that?”

Brian jumps, looks up at the low grumble across from him. Her witch fingers are spread across the plum countertop of the bank island. She’s biting a bleeding red bottom lip, MAC _Russian Red_ and brown liner that travels past her thick, natural lip lines.

She’s gesturing for his pen. He passes it to her wordlessly, and she grins as she takes it. Her nails are filed down into perfect bare ovals, her hands are veiny and pale but they look soft. Her teeth are bright white, perfectly straight. He can’t stop his eyes from travelling across her wide shoulder pads in the navy blue blazer she’s wearing, can’t not stare at her adam’s apple and her tiny gold hoop earrings, how half of her long hair is pulled behind her head carelessly with a big banana clip.

She huffs at the slip on the sticky tabletop, her palm squeaks with sweat on the plastic as she maneuvers it to a better perch, so that she can write her numbers down more diligently. He can see a little gold chain around her wrist, pooling around a sharp bone.

She reeks of cigarettes and her pack of Camel yellows is sticking out of her breast pocket, along with a whole swath of pens and a pair of wire-framed glasses. He squints, to make sure, but she isn’t far enough away that he could explain it away with his own bad eyesight. She has a pocketful of cigarettes and pens, pocket protector (Jesus) smeared with what looks like ash.

She asked him for a pen, and she has a whole arsenal. He waits until she’s finished filling out her slip, though, and then she’s looking back up at him and swallowing, breathing in. Her white button-up is smeared with her foundation around the collar, but it looks faded, like she’s attempted to scrub it out many a time. 

“Thanks,” she holds her hand out to him, sharp hitchhiker’s thumb bent at an almost ninety-degree angle. He takes it, shakes it, nods, and her grip is hard enough for him to need to swallow his wince.

“I’m. Uh, I’m Brian,” he stutters, and instantly wants to scream. She’s smirking across at him, her baby hairs are sticking straight up from the wind. Her skin is some kind of cream in the dreary daylight.

“Katya,” she grins, leaves him to fill his own slip, clacking away on black heels with a pointed toe. Her purse jingles with change. 

It takes him a good three minutes to remember his account number because he keeps looking over at the back of her head-- she has a red leaf sticking in her hair and her shoulder pads cut a dramatic line across her back. She’s short even in heels, much shorter than him, and she leans up against the counter on her elbows, gets all up in the teller’s face with her smoker’s breath. 

He finally makes it to the window next to her, pushes his checks, ID, and deposit slip across the low wall. 

He can feel her standing next to him like his skin is buzzing. She’s swaying back and forth on her heels, bouncing up and down with little clacks on the tile floor. The door opens behind them and the cool breeze is forced to the back of his nearly-bald head, and he shivers. 

She’s done at the same time he is. They turn around in tandem, walk side-by-side to the double doors and push them open together. She laughs brightly, bumps her shoulder against his. 

“It’s cold.” He kicks himself again. Now he’s talking about the fucking weather, and this woman clearly thinks that he’s an idiot. Katya. Her name is Katya, and she’s shuffling to the side at the doorway, crooking a skinny pointer finger on his inner elbow to pull him along with her. He follows dumbly. 

“Sure is,” she smiles. She pulls the cigarettes and a purple lighter out of her pocket, has to squeeze at the pack and yank to dislodge it from the pens. She pulls one out and plops it in her mouth, lights it with a hand cupping around it to keep the flame from the wind. 

“So Brian.” She speaks distinctly but a little knowingly, as if she already has his responses listed in her mind. He hopes that he can surprise her. 

“Yeah,” he leans against the wall. 

“You aren’t from here.” He looks up, squints at her. She’s smirking around her cigarette. 

“How’d you know?” 

She laughs loudly and he jumps, tries to force a smile. She’s almost too larger-than-life for him to be able to, but he manages. And she laughs at him again.

“‘Cause I’m not either. It’s nice to not be, ya know. Dallas is horrid,” she huffs, snorts, and takes another drag. “Where’re you from?”

“Wisconsin. Technically Milwaukee,” he assumes that she’ll comprehend the idea of a suburb. She nods sagely, jerks her leg forwards and rests her foot up on her heel, twirls it from side-to-side. “You?”

“Mass-a-two-shits. And same, technically Boston. Suburbia did wonders for my mental health,” her lips spread into a wide grin and he barks a laugh. She’s cutting, clever, and a little intentionally stupid. Her navy blue blazer hangs off of her skinny shoulders. His mind is running faster than it has in years of wasting away in Dallas, years of staring at a crackling computer screen and hoping against hope that he has leftovers in the fridge. 

She leans in closer to him, a tiny bit of leftover smoke sneaking out of her nose. Her pores are wide under her foundation, he wants to introduce her to a moisturizer and a good toner.

“And here we sit, outside a bank in the South, waiting for death. Pathetic.”

He shrieks, grips her upper arm on reflex, and she gives him the smirk she’s been giving the past twenty minutes of (not even) knowing him. It’s making his stomach turn, and he allows it to. The last time he wanted to fuck a woman was maybe never, unless you count Dolly Parton in some kind of baby country boy’s desperate confusion, but he refuses to let the singular point of possible sexual contact that he’s interested in disappear for some kind of label he’s never really thought twice about.

She takes his arm in hand as he continues to laugh and digs her fingers into his tendons, his muscle he’s started trying to grow since he hasn’t anything better to do. 

“God, you’re so right,” he gasps. He looks around the deserted parking lot, filled only with employee vehicles and a lone plumber’s van, weeds sticking out of the cracks in the pavement. Katya puts out her cigarette on the brick wall of the bank, leans back against it with her knees bent a little. Her legs bulge with muscle, they curve inwards at her thighs and pop veins along her shins. He’s a tiny bit hard. She’s probably laughing at him.

His bus ticket is melting in his pocket, he can feel his sweat sticking to the insides of his jeans and his wallet. She stares at him for a little as he finally slows down his laughter, eyes still dancing in delight and gray clouds.

“So Brian,” she pulls out a stick of gum from her purse. He nods slowly as she unwraps it, sticks it between her bright white teeth. “You want to take me home?”

“I, uh. I came here on the bus.” He smacks himself hard on the forehead privately in his own brain, but her grin is growing exponentially at his stuttered attempts at saving himself. He likes it, watching her win.

“Yeah, well I drove.”

He swallows. She’s still leaning up against the wall, shoulder pads holding her piles of hair up valiantly and without give. Her arms are crossed, the extra fabric of her blazer wrinkled at her elbows. He wants to see all of her skin, her whole body laid out in front of him. He can see her adam’s apple bob as she swallows in anticipation, can see how she sucks in her cheekbones as she smiles.

“Alright.”

She laughs brightly, pulls him in by the hand to press her lips against his, flat and nonsexual. It makes his dick twitch anyways. When she pulls back he pulls her in again, kisses the side of her mouth with a little bit of his tongue poking out to touch her foundation, just so she knows that he likes her. It works, he can hear her breath hitch as he does it.

She has a gray Ford Escort parked right next to the last handicap spot. She clomps in her heels to the passenger side, where the car is almost too close to the van across the yellow line, and opens the door for him jokingly, second cigarette bouncing as she jogs around the back of the car to get to the driver’s side. He laughs, she’s grinning and sitting in her seat, throwing her purse in the back.

“Get in,” she says. He sits in the passenger seat and is instantly choked with smoke, from what she’s exhaling but also from the other years of the car’s existence. It’s musty and messy, the glove compartment is hanging open and is full of tissues smeared with lipstick and sticks of eyeliner that are snapped in half.

And then her fingers are tight around the meat of his thigh and she’s looking across at him with a smirk.

“You want to wine and dine me first?”

He screams with laughter, how she pleased with herself she looks and how thrilled she clearly is at the entire situation. Her laughter curls up in his stomach, coiling like a snake, tight and hot. She starts the car and pulls out of the spot with jerking brakes, cranking her window down with one hand on the wheel. He follows suit, watches her from the passenger side.

Her profile is sharp, cutting nose and chin and sloping forehead backlit by the gray sky. He opens his mouth to speak because he actually _would_ like to wine and dine her, he realizes, but she cuts him off.

“I’ll take you to my favorite place.” She turns sharp at the green light, he leans to the side with the swing of the car on the road. “You’ll love it.”

He laughs lightly, can’t help it with how she smiles at him mischievously. She puts out her cigarette in the ashtray and speeds up a little, pointed shoe on the gas, and rests her hand on his thigh. His skin instantly blooms into goosebumps underneath the denim, and his foot twitches when she squeezes harder.

“You’ve got some nice meat on your bones, baby,” she laughs, tickles his inner thigh so that he gasps. And then her hand is on his dick, rubbing down to feel him grow beneath her fingers and thick denim. He groans involuntarily, wraps his hand around her wrist. 

She pulls her hand away once they’re stopped at a red light with cars all around them, and he wishes that he could appreciate her subtlety. But he can’t, he would fuck her anywhere at this point, her fingers around the wheel are making him crazy, her jiggling thigh is scrambling his entire brain.

Her legs look like she hardly has an ounce of fat on them, except that they do, cushioning her muscles gently. They look squishy and soft under her nylons, and when she turns the radio on he forces his anxious hand across the seat, places it on her warm thigh, just above her knee. 

She continues to watch the road, but he can see how her back straightens and can hear how she sighs at the contact.

He keeps his hand there through one full shitty country song, and then she pulls up to the restaurant and pats it, climbs out of the car.

She leads him inside, purple lampshades bringing down the lights a little more than they maybe should be. It’s a burger joint, and he follows her as she blatantly ignores the faded _Please Wait To Be Seated_ sign and slides in a purple bench, pulls her cigarettes out of her purse and lights one up.

Brian can hear clanking in the kitchen, it’s Tuesday-night dead, and then a tall waitress is coming out of the door, looking frazzled with her hair thrown atop her head.

“Hey! Hello, can I start you off with anything?” Katya smiles up at her, a genuine smile that makes Brian want to slide under the table in sheer overwhelmed horniness. 

“I’d love some water. Ice water. With lemon,” she counts to three on her fingers as she lists off all of the elements. The waitress nods, the bun on her head jiggles precariously. Katya blows smoke right into Brian’s face and he rolls his eyes.

“And you?” The waitress is still out of breath. Brian feels a fleeting guilt for even existing here, making her work.

“I’ll have the same, thank you.” She turns back to the kitchen and Katya props her foot up next to his thigh, on his seat under the table. 

“High-maintenance,” he giggles. She rolls her eyes, bumps him with her heel. 

“Shut up. I’m starving,” she sighs. He laughs harder, as she grumpily pushes her hips forward on the seat to lean back against it. She crosses her arms and pouts around her cigarette.

The waitress comes back as they stare each other down, drops the menus on the sticky tabletop and places their waters down as well. Brian starts sucking his down through the straw immediately, but Katya finishes her cigarette before squishing her lemon in the bottom of her glass a few times. He watches her drink, eyelids lowered to glance at the menu, light reflecting shadows of her eyelashes down her cheeks.

“What’re you getting?” She asks, once she’s seemed to decide. She watches him, analyzes him with those blue eyes, and he almost shivers. Some shitty 70s hits are playing, the A/C is blasting him uncomfortably but he kinda likes the vibe of the place. It looks thrown-together, fake plants mismatched and TV turned to a baseball game. There’s a bar in the other room, he can hear talking behind the arched doorway. 

“Salad,” he says. She nods, takes a big sip of her water.

“I’m just getting fries, can’t deal with that cheese shit,” she says matter-of-factly, as if he’s meant to nod and agree without question. She speaks like everything that comes out of her mouth is a universal truth, like she’s already been declared the queen of shitty opinions. He loves it.

“That cheese shit? The fuck do you mean. I’m from Wisconsin, I can’t agree with that,” he laughs. She rolls her eyes at him, still pouting. The waitress comes over, hip popped and pad of paper propped in her hand to take their orders.

They say their orders (Katya spits out her own right to Brian, as if he’s done her a personal wrong), and the waitress leaves in awkward silence, shuffling back to the kitchen.

“Cheese is foul,” she grumbles. He places his hands on the table, palms, down, and looks up at her with a brow arched.

“You’re allowed your opinion.”

Her eyes flash at how he isn’t arguing with her. He wants to laugh, she looks so offended that he isn’t snapping back, but her set jaw is also making him squirm in his seat a little.

Their food arrives and once Katya is munching on french fries she seems to simmer down a little. He can imagine that she must blow off steam in the oddest ways, she probably does primal scream therapy or something. He imagines her in the middle of the woods, shrieking up at the sky, and snorts into his lettuce. She smirks at him from across the tabletop.

Some more customers slide in as it gets later and the sun starts setting, cars fill the lot and people fill the tables around them. Suddenly it seems a lot less pathetic, the room livens up quick and Katya’s mood lifts along with it. The bar is louder, Katya’s cheeks are flushing under her fading makeup. And once she starts talking she hardly stops, she rants on and on about her shitty faucet in her apartment, the in’s and out’s of bossing everyone around from a desk at a nonprofit.

He watches her, and he wants to fuck her. He isn’t going to delude himself with ideas of long-term arrangements, of expectations or dramatics, but he Wants It, wants her impossibly long hair and huge red lips. She stares him right down, and he stares back a little weaker. The tiny curve of her breasts under her white shirt are making his hips shift side-to-side on the seat.

She pulls him to the car after she’s paid for both of their meals with sharp eyes just _daring_ him to offer to do it himself. He directs her to his apartment with her hand sneaking up his thigh again, in the twilight with just the streetlamps to pull him into little moments of realization.

 

“This is such a bad idea,” Brian is panting. Katya’s arms are pushing him in the door. He hasn’t flip-flopped, he wants her. He’s just being forced to acknowledge how much he wants her, and it’s making his knees weaken under the smell of her around him.

“No it’s not, it’s a good idea, the best idea,” she pants. Brian lets her spin him around, lets her lipstick slide against his lips. “The best idea you’ve ever had.”

Brian’s lips are on fire. She’s so close, close enough to make him dizzy, and she kisses him harder than he’s ever been kissed. Her mouth just hangs open limply but she pushes her lips and tongue against his so hard, he can hardly feel any of it but it’s all he’s ever felt, somehow. 

“It’s a terrible idea,” he says. She laughs at it, too, she can already hear his lies straight from his mouth. He’s known her for no time. 

“I want your dick.” Brian’s heart skips and his dick twitches. She can feel him tense, and he brings his finger up to her cheek. He can feel her stubble underneath her thick foundation, digs his fingernails in right at the hollow of her cheekbone. 

“Fuck.” She wants his dick. He wants to give it to her more than anything.

“Just don’t think for a second,” she mumbles. He nods, swallows, she’s right. He deserves to not think, deserves this, deserves Katya pushing him painfully gently, fingers on his chest, to sit on the couch. 

He lets her straddle him, her tiny breasts rub against his chest. It’s been ages, years and years since he’s felt a woman against him, and Katya is unsurprisingly excruciatingly feminine. She weighs almost nothing on top of him. His nose is pressing against her adam’s apple. She’s sweating down her neck and he licks at it, he’s so hard he can hardly breathe, and she tastes like stale smoke and foundation. 

She tastes like she wants him, and he wants her to pull her nylons off, her pencil skirt, her button up and her fucking blazer, wants her pale and stretched above him. 

She laughs as he bites her shoulder, he can’t help but put his mouth and tongue all over her. She’s delicate but she’s getting heavier and heavier on his lap, wiggling down on his cock. She’s dirty, she keeps whining these long moans that he knows are going to kill him. 

“I thought you were gay,” she says. She kisses him before he can respond, and he kisses her back just as hard this time. He can feel his upper lip being pinched between both of their teeth, her big white ones and his busted country ones, blossoming into blood beneath fragile skin. 

“Well I’ve never felt so fucking straight, fuck you.” She laughs at him again, and it makes his dick drip. 

She’s rolling her hips all over him. She’s hiked her pencil skirt up so she can straddle him and it’s getting so hot in the room that he wants to push her off, but he can’t stop himself from clenching his hands around her little waist. His fingers reach her ass cheeks, swish with the nylon. 

“God you’re hot,” Katya heaves out on a breath. He brings his hands up and squeezes her breasts as hard as he can and she squeaks, high but also so low, it goes right to his dick. “Let me suck you.”

He wants her on his lap. 

“I like how you look on my lap.”

“I like being on your lap,” she grins. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and runs her fingers over his buzzed hair, on the back of his neck. “Farm boy.”

Brian groans. Her hand is grabbing his dick tight through his jeans. It hurts, and he hisses as she squeezes tighter. 

“Do you like that?” She keeps her tight hold. She’s well-spoken, her words clip out low in his ear. 

Brian is sweating down his forehead but he nods, slides his eyes closed. 

“No, watch me.” She’s so fucking narcissistic. Brian wants to fuck it out of her. And that would only serve to inflate her ego. He wants to stuff a vibrator up her ass and watch her hips sink up and down, trying to get it to rub against her prostate. She’s still wearing her pointy black heels, they’re hanging off the couch on her little feet.

His eyes are open, blurry, and she’s trying to unzip her skirt. She’s clumsier than he’s ever seen her, and he hopes that it’s because she’s nervous. She isn’t. She’s just horny, and his eyes bug when she pulls off the layers and layers of navy formal wear, dropping it from her body to reveal her lacy undergarments. 

Brian can hear his own whimper at how her milky skin is bared, between pink lace straps and sharp underwire. She stinks of cigarette smoke. Brian wants her to be his wife. 

“Pink for you, gayboy,” she laughs. She sits down heavy on his dick, and then his eyes are on her dick in the aforementioned lace. She’s big, red, and he presses a palm flat against her. 

She grinds against it. His hands are bigger than hers, and she’s breathing hot on his ear. He’s so fully clothed and the kitchen lights are on, he watches her face.

“You didn’t even know me until four hours ago,” he replies, too late. She laughs on his mouth, hooks her feet under his thighs. 

“Yeah? They’re still pink. I never wear pink.” She kisses him again, her tongue swiping over all of the lipstick. “It’s fate.”

Her arm hair glints in the dim, he bumps against her bracelet and little silver watch with his elbow, it’s cold against his overheated skin. She hisses, brings her hand from his face to her wrist to unbuckle the cool metal, where he’s sure that the watch has caught hair in it and pinched her skin. He wraps his fingers around her wrist where the watch was sitting, slides his thumb against the soft hairs, presses against the sharp bone there. 

Her eyelashes flutter as she grinds up against him, shamelessly using his palm to get off. He watches her dreamily, feels her hot against his hand. 

“Too dry,” she groans. “Lube.”

She climbs off of him. She’s so hard, and her little tits bounce in her bra as she stands. She must wear corsets, or else she’s naturally curvy, and Brian would believe it either way. He imagines her in one, nothing else, black zipper making indents in her pale skin, and his dick screams for attention. 

“Take your clothes off, Brian,” she snaps from the bathroom. 

The smoke that follows her is achingly sweet in his nose, and then she’s back and her long hair is thrown to one side. 

“How aren’t you naked?” she stands in front of him, lube in hand, head cocked to one side. She looks genuinely confused, her little eyelashes are bouncing up off her cheekbones. 

She’s back on his lap, and his shirt is off. She has her hands all over him, squeezing his stomach and sides, his mostly nonexistent pecs, pinching his nipples with quick fluttering fingers. 

“I’m the most womanly woman you’ll ever get to fuck,” she says. Her voice is cool, and he shivers. She’s grinning and he nods, yanks the back of her neck forward to kiss her hard again. 

“I know,” he says against her lips. She nods. He hopes, in the back of his mind, that she’ll be the last woman he ever fucks, the last anyone he ever fucks. He wants to die after this, or die with her at 100.

He feels fucking crazy, Katya is sliding lube against her dick in her lacy underwear with one hand and sticking her fingers into his mouth one-by-one with the other, alongside his tongue. He’s almost delirious, he can hold her right against him and he can feel her brown nipples hard poking under lace, on his chest. 

“God, you’re dirty,” he says. She whimpers and he slips fingers below the pink lace to touch her slick cock. She’s slathered herself up with lube and he sighs and just barely slides his fingers across her length over and over again. She twitches her hips against him every time his fingers meander up to the head. 

He reaches behind her, unhooks her bra and pulls the straps down with shaking fingers, replaces where it cupped her breasts gently with his hands. He pinches her already so hard nipples, making her shiver and shift impatiently in his lap. He kisses down her cheek, her neck, sucks on a sharp, big collarbone, and then his lips are on her warm nipple. He sucks, bites, and she sobs, jerks her head back and then forward, lips on his scalp. He bites the soft skin of her breasts and squeezes them hard enough for her to whine, and then pulls back up to kiss her again.

And then she laughs, nods, climbs off of him again but this time to take both of his hands off of her, pulling him up so fast he almost falls on her, crushes her and breaks her despite all of her defined muscles. He stops her with hands on her shoulders, bends down to hook fingers through pink lace again, pulls her thong down so she can step out of it. He kisses her dick, once on the shaft, and she gasps, grips his ears and thrusts against his chin. She’s so light, and he can’t help himself from scooping her up and watching her breasts bounce, carrying her in his arms to the bedroom.

She screeches, laughing in his arms, she slaps him on the shoulder and replaces her hand with her mouth, bites down hard enough for him to drop her instantaneously on the bed.

She falls, still laughing, on her knees. Her ass is so pale, it jiggles the tiniest bit as she tumbles forward. God, he’s going to come just from looking at her, the hair on the back of her thighs and her smooth, soft armpits, how her long blonde waves fall down her spine. She has three freckles right above the gentle curve of her ass, he wants his fingers on her balls and he wants his tongue on her asshole, and he doesn’t know where to touch her first.

“Oh my god,” he puts his hands on her soft, soft ass, her hips, flips her over and climbs over her, knees tight around her waist. 

He’s almost off the edge, and he’s blushing because of it. Katya is drenched in some kind of perfume, and it’s making his eyes droop. 

“I’m going to come,” he chokes out. It’s building so fast, her dick is so hot under his fingers. She sucks a breath in, laughs. They’re face-to-face, noses almost touching, she’s pressed up against him naked beneath him, her body warm and sweaty and wonderful.

“So soon?” She laughs at him. It shoves him to the edge of his stomach-cliff. 

“I’m still going to play with you after I have.”

She moans, voice cracking at the end, his hands go to her hair on reflex, pushing it out of her eyes and away from her cheekbones, keeps his thumbs pressed in front of her ears. Her eyes are half closed and her hands are off him, rubbing herself and leaning in, kissing him hard again, teeth knocking and scraping.

“Play with me,” she keeps whining, flipping them over and grinding down on him. He’s sure that the neighbors can hear them, and it’s shoving him even closer, dangerously hanging off the edge. “Play with me.”

“Let me--” she cuts him off by unbuttons his jeans and unzipping them, lifts him by the hips and yanks them down his thighs. Her hands are back on his dick, still over his boxers. He’s panting so hard that she looks up at him and laughs, a huge wheeze that takes her hands off him to slap his thighs. 

“Katya, please,” he breathes. She’s still laughing but she pulls his blue boxers down slowly, with fingernails scraping his thighs. He hisses, mumbles an _ouch_ and she kisses him right on the belly button. He’s gotten used to the cigarette smell, but when her hair falls across his chest he gets a fresh wave, can’t stop himself from wrapping his fingers in the long blonde strands. 

She lifts her head, smirks at him and grips his hips with strong hands. And then she gives the head of his dick a big kiss, bumps her sharp nose against it, grins at him as he gasps and takes him all the way, down to the back of her throat, in one swallow.

He comes instantly with her hot mouth around him, sucking and soaked with saliva. She pulls off of him once he yanks her hair back, her mouth just a little ajar, lips pushed outwards so he can see the white of her teeth beyond them.

He pulls her up to kiss him and then all of his release is spilling into his mouth, her tongue pushing it across his teeth and her fingers are digging into his ass cheeks so he keeps his mouth open, his lips against hers. She’s swallowing him down as they kiss, and he’s forced to swallow himself down too. And he wants to be disgusted so badly but his dick is twitching slightly in interest and Katya is climbing all over him, digging her toes into his sides and rubbing her ass against his hip.

“Katya,” he says. She keeps kissing him, the side of his mouth, his nose with her tongue, flicks it over his right cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut and digs his nails into her back. “Katya, can I.”

“Can you what. Spit it out,” she replies. She’s thrusting against his stomach, her dick is so wet and so hot against his skin. 

“Can I eat your ass?”

She’s pulling back from him instantly, kissing him once on the lips again. He takes her by the shoulders, pulls her back up to his chest. She’s dripping sweat and her spine pokes him, and she sits her ass down on his thighs, throws her head back, rests it atop his shoulder so that she can look right into his eyes. His hands go to her breasts, they’re tiny and perky, her nipples are so hard that they look like they hurt.

He cups them, squish the warm flesh, pinches her nipples between his strong fingers. She sobs, her eyes flutter closed. Her dick clearly hurts and aches and she keeps thrusting her hips up a little every few seconds.

One of his hands falls to her stomach, squeezes it where there’s a little warm skin to grab. She’s breathing and the skin is rising, falling beneath his palm, and he yanks on the coarse brown hairs below her belly button so that she gasps and thrusts up, so her dick bumps the back of his hand. It’s hot, and he groans into her hair. 

“Brian, come on. Please,” she begs. He can’t take it, her pubes in his fingers and her dick rubbing across the veins on the back of his hand, his stressed tendons. His inner wrist is sticking with sweat to her tummy, she’s squirming around on his thighs. 

He bends her over, settles her on the sheets on her stomach with a whimper. Her hands grip the pillow, the tendons in her hairy arms shift and her veins stick out and his fingers grip her ass cheeks, spread them apart, so flushed and pink-toned.

He hums thoughtfully, she’s twitching in front of him and he kisses both cheeks, right where they start curving inwards, and she squeals. He bends down further to press a little kiss to her balls and she kicks a leg high, involuntarily into the air, narrowly missing his ear. 

“Sorry,” she doesn’t sound sorry. “Get on with it!” 

She’s whining, like she had in the cold outside of the bank, and then when she had come back from her smoke break in the middle of their fucking date. She’s attitudinal to the Nth degree, and Brian digs his fingers in harder. She whimpers and thrusts against the sheets. 

“Stop it,” he says against the peach fuzz of her ass. She coughs a laugh against the pillow, shoves her ass up in his face so that he can’t help but bump his lips against her hole.

And then he’s licking across her, he can’t help but grip where she’s bent forward, where the skin of her hips and stomach rolls under his fingers, and suck and lick at her. He pushes his tongue inside her before she even has to start scolding him to, wraps fingers around her dick to pump her along with his tongue.

She bends back on her knees, backs up to push back against him, inch his tongue further up inside her. He curls it, slides a finger in along with it, and when it finds her prostate she gasps and both of her feet twitch against the sheets.

“Brian, you’d better jerk me harder,” she says. Her words are muffled and his dick is almost fully hard again, his fingers sink into the soft skin of her ass-- it’s so soft, her ass is so tight and small that he almost wants to scream, but his tongue is up her asshole and she’s bumping her hips back and forth, chasing her orgasm and using him like an object to get herself off.

She knows what she wants and she’s unapologetically greedy, grinding back on his face and groaning, her balls bumping against his chin. She’s so warm around him, her sweat is dripping down his face and it’s disgusting, or it would be if he wasn’t so horny again. If he didn’t like it so much. He’s fully hard and his grip tightens around her dick. 

“Get me off.” She demands it, turns her head around to glint her pale eyes at him. He presses down on the freckles on her lower back with his one free hand, brings it down to yank on her leg hair. 

Her entire body jerks and she gasps, his stomach flies forward at how she comes, hand circling his own around her dick, slowing him down. His tongue is still inside her and she pulls her body up on trembling arms, bulging muscles, popping veins to slide it out of her. 

He’s so hard at the taste of her ass and how she looks, spent and soft atop the blankets. She curls up, brings her knees up and takes his hand, wraps her thighs around his middle and takes him in her hand. 

She doesn’t kiss him but she watches his face, licks his chest and makes little humming noises as his orgasm builds almost painfully. He drops his head on her shoulder, smells her lotion and body powder and lets his lips brush the soft hair on the back of her neck. 

“Come on,” she whispers. He swallows his whimper, her hands are sharp with long fingers and golden brown hairs on the knuckles that are just growing back, he watches her around his dick, pumping and twisting. 

And then she’s letting go and bringing her hand up to her mouth, spitting on it right in front of his eyes. He stops them from rolling back into his head as she settles her warm skin back around his, with her saliva on his flesh. 

He’s squeezing her biceps, his head falls back to her shoulder and he breathes in her sweaty skin, she’s covered in freckles from what he assumes are ancient sunburns, laziness and greed. She’s ten thousand times larger than life, he wants to fuck her ass as she wears her blazer and nothing else, just the tiny curve of her breasts and her hard dick on view for him. 

Her eyebrows have marks where she’s plucked them for years on end, tiny scars nicked into the skin that mirror the ones along her jawline. She pulls him in tighter and slides her hand along him faster, and he moves his hands to her breasts, pinches her nipples tightly. 

“Ouch! Brian,” she whispers. It’s so much quieter now that she’s come, she’s less wound-up and she works at him more cleverly. He keeps his hold on her until she twists her fingers, kisses his cheek and scrapes her teeth against his growing stubble. 

“Katya,” he breathes. His second orgasm is coming fast, he’s flatlining and about to slide over the edge and his fingers release so she yelps at the rush of feeling. 

“Come on, come,” she says. And he does, with her fingers digging into his stomach and her hair on his neck and in his eyes. 

 

She lights a cigarette and lies on top of him, smokes it so that he twitches every time she moves her hand in fear that she’ll spill ash on him. 

Her makeup is smeared, black eyeshadow and liner down her crow’s feet. He cups her face and brushes his thumbs across her stubble because he can, and she lets him kiss her once he’s brushed his teeth. 

He lies there with her back against his chest, completely naked with a naked woman on top of him, one of his hands resting on her breast. He lies there and basks in how strange it all is, how his stomach churns when she laughs at his jokes and squeezes his hip with her fingers. 

“I’m going to be in Wisconsin in two weeks,” she mumbles. He can tell that she’s half asleep but she sits up, kisses him with a smoke-filled mouth, pulls on her little bra.

“Oh yea?” He isn’t going to be there for as long as he can put it off. His ex is still living there in his old apartment, and he certainly can’t afford the journey to and from.

“Yup. Not too thrilled,” she snorts. He laughs with her, pulls her naked hip towards him and bends down to kiss it. She wiggles like his lips and fingers tickle her, and he smiles against her skin. 

“How long’ll you be there?” He asks against her skin. She wraps fingers around the back of his head with the very hand that’s still holding her cigarette, brings him up to kiss her again.

“A week. Then Memphis,” she says. She talks against his lips like it’s the right way to speak, and it makes him pull her onto his lap again, her thighs up against her chest so that he can feel all of her legs against his inner arm, her back against his wrist and hand. She fits on top of him, she doesn’t weigh much of anything.

“Don’t get too tired,” he whispers. She laughs, kisses his earlobe and then really disentangles herself from him. 

“They have free coffee at hotels.” He watches her tiny ass jiggle again as she pulls her thong back on, balls her nylons up to stuff them in her purse and pulls on her white button-up. She turns into the bathroom and he watches her inspect her face in the mirror, wipe off her lipstick with toilet paper and draw it back on quickly. She’s done it enough times to have the contours of her lips memorized from far away enough that he was certain she would mess it up.

Once she gets back into the bedroom she kisses him on the cheek. Her lipstick is matte but he can still feel it come off on his face. He gets up to follow her to the living room, where her blazer is waiting on the floor.

He flips the collar over when she pulls it on, it’s been wrinkled in the shuffle of their naked grinding and whining on the couch. She turns around and kisses him on the mouth, the fabric sweeping against itself and making little _woosh_ -ing noises as he holds her waist firmly. 

“This was really nice,” she says once she pulls back. She pats his ass twice so that goosebumps burst across his skin and up his spine, her eyes glow in the darkness of the room.

“I think so too.”

She grins and leaves, and he sits naked on the couch for five full minutes before meandering to the shower in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think we should date?” She asks it deadly serious, as if her life depends on it, and Brian’s heart swings up into his throat. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
> 
> Brian pulls back, releases her slightly to cough into his elbow. He can feel his blush grow and intensify, and her lips position themselves right above his ear. He waits patiently for her to yell over the music again.
> 
> “I think about your dick a lot. It’s so big, I always want to suck on it,” she says. “I dream about your dick, Brian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to revisit these two. They're SPECIAL. I love them. One night stands exist, but... sometimes you pine over that person and then you run into them again! It's just life.
> 
> Warnings for Christmas and sex/domination with one partner being significantly drunker than the other.
> 
> Special thanks to everyone that enjoys this fic. You're my kind of people. Bless you all.

“Aw, it’s my gay boyfriend!”

Brian spins around as fast as his body allows him, drunk on pink wine and desperate for companionship. He’s only just hopped off the bus and Katya’s thin arms are wrapping tight around his waist. She smells the same, fresh cigarette smoke, and she whines performatively in his ear. 

“Hi, Katya, hi,” he doesn’t fully know how to speak to her. It’s not like he didn’t think he would see her again- Dallas’ LGBT population is fairly tight-knit and he’d been to a couple meetings that Katya’s coworkers were involved in, but he _is_ surprised to see her nonetheless. She’s wearing a tiny dark green spaghetti-strap tank top, a loose denim skirt that has buttons all down the front. It stops at her ankles, and they’re bare, they look excruciatingly smooth, too smooth for his drunk mind and heart to be able to handle.

He doesn’t want to say that he pined after her. He didn’t: he’s been on dates since her, has fucked one man and dated two, has dated two women without anything coming from it. He’s just been lonely, and she’s been the best sex of his life, _plus_ she left without a word, essentially. He’s too soft-hearted to let someone go like that, especially a whip-smart woman with soft hair on her arms and big red lips. 

She keeps her grip on him from behind, her fingernails dig into his stomach. He realizes that she’s puffing on a cigarette right at his ear, and she twists one of her skinny ankles around his in his jeans. He shivers and she laughs, lets him hold his hands over hers, link their fingers on his stomach.

“Hi baby,” she whines again. He’s developed a permanent shiver, that intensifies when she whispers in his ear. She’s probably drunk, with the way she’s wrapping her whole body around him. “Did you come alone?”

He nods, pulls her hands off of him and spins himself around to face her. She stumbles forward, her teeth are stained a little purple with wine and she pushes him against the side wall of the club where she was perched as he walked past, presses her lips against his completely open, biting his mouth and sliding her tongue alongside his. She keeps whining, and he pinches her tummy as tight as he can between a few fingers so that she gasps, her breath catching in her chest.

“Lonely boy,” she whispers. He rolls his eyes, pulls her closer against him. He wants to scream, it’s so not how he expected his evening to go. He’d assumed that he would pick up a tiny, nerdy gay with hookup anxiety, bring him home fuck him hard as he whined unsatisfyingly against the pillow, only to shoo him out in the morning. This time, he vows to himself to keep track of Katya. She’s bound to attempt to sneak away from him, but he almost fucked her to sleep the first time and he promises to fuck her even harder this time. She brings her lips to his chin, sucks on it slowly. “Sloppy.”

“Will you dance with me a little?” Brian says loudly against her lips. The music inside is muffled by the walls but the bass is pounding against his back, and his voice rings clear in the dark night. The streetlights and building lights are making Katya’s skin glow yellow, and she looks beautiful in the color.

“What, before we go back to yours and you fuck me good?” She laughs brightly, pulls him off of the wall and smacks his ass so hard that he yelps. She continues to laugh, grips his hand tight enough that he grunts as she pulls him behind her, into the back door of the club. “This is the secret way.”

She turns to wink at him conspiratorially, gives him a little air kiss. He reaches up a hand to catch it in the space between them, holds it in his palm and opens his fingers over his heart in the green-lit hallway, where the music is much louder, pulsing with his heartbeat. She grins so wide that he bets it hurts. He can see her goosebumps spread across her skin, her blush is painted on with a vengeance, concentrated higher on her cheekbones than last time.

“You look pretty,” he breathes. She’s stopped at his hand over his heart, like she’s pleasantly surprised at his little romantic gesture, and she wraps sweaty fingers around the back of his neck, pulls him down to her height, cracking his spine to get him to kiss her.

“Just take me home,” she says once she pulls back. He shakes his head, tickles the little curve of her waist with his fingers that feel comically big on her, nudges her to spin her around, push her forward. “No! Don’t be a meanie,” she giggles, jumps to wrap her legs around his waist.

He almost falls but she’s so light that he can carry her to the wall no problem, her dick is already hard beneath her skirt. He can feel it hot against his stomach, can feel her heavy combat boots twist his shirt, caught on the rubber.

She’s sweating down her matte foundation, on her tiny wrinkled forehead. She’s cut little bangs, baby bangs that are half sticking up, half stuck to the sweat on her forehead, and her eyeliner is smeared down her cheek from her left eye. She’s grinning and she has deep red lipstick smeared on her two front teeth, little bunny teeth that show sparkling behind her pretty lips.

“I paid for a bus fare to dance,” Brian says. He pulls her thighs where her skirt has bunched up around them, lifts her gently off of him. She whimpers, sticks out her bottom lip and rolls her eyes viciously. 

“Fuck you, I’ll find someone else in a second,” she says, pulls her hand out of his. He grips her shoulder before she can stalk away, pulls her close to his face. He breathes right onto her open face, her light eyes, kisses her quickly before she can pull away a second time.

“Will you, though?” She stares up at him and scoffs, nods. “You need a serious attitude check.”

She gasps and he laughs, pulls her in to kiss him again. She kisses him long and slow, her tongue pushing far up from the roof of his mouth and fucking his cheeks a little, she pinches his nose so that he has to breathe her breaths heavily through her mouth. She keeps whimpering pornographically, he can hear it loud and clear in front of his face despite the music. He pushes her as he kisses her back, towards the door that he assumes will open inside the club. Once her back bangs against the handle she turns, sighs and pushes the door open.

She sticks to the wall, holds his hand like she’s his proper girlfriend and lights a cigarette with the other one. He watches her in the flashing lights, it’s loud enough for his brain to get scrambled a little between that and his drunken failed acceptance that Katya is right next to him and the smoke of her cigarette floating in front of his face. 

“I’ll dance with you after I finish this,” she yells in his ear, her sticky lips brushing against his skin. He shivers despite the hot closeness, the mass of people around them, the green blue brightness and then dark. He nods, holds her hand with both of his and plays with the veins on the back of it, tracing them and pushing them down to watch them disappear, return again when he lifts the pads of his fingers from her skin. She ignores him, humors him, and he laughs at it but it really sends thrills up and down his spine, makes him straighten as she stands and smokes.

Her hands are still as dry, veiny, witchy. Her nails are still perfectly manicured, stained with nicotine and picked at around the cuticles a little. She’s wearing a gold ring, a tiny band with a little pearl in the middle, and he brings her hand up to his mouth to kiss around it, lick over it for a second.

“My hands are dirty,” she says. He shrugs, lips still on her fingers, licks up and down her middle finger around the ring, up to her nail and back down to her knuckle. Her eyes fall shut and she takes a deep drag, he can see her pulling out of the loud club and focusing solely on his tongue. “Alright.”

She puts her cigarette out in an ashtray at the bar, waves to the butch bartender who blows her a smacking kiss. Katya pretends to catch it like Brian had done in the hall, but she mimics sliding it into the deep pocket of her skirt. Brian feels like he’s hovering in his shoes. The bartender winks at Brian and he wants to melt down into nothing, but before he can acknowledge it Katya is yanking him along to the dance floor, pulling him carelessly through the mass of people.

“Business casual?!” She screams it, as she drops her hips down a little, bumps her hand against his dick in his jeans. He shivers, pulls her in by her tiny butt, presses himself tight to her stomach. “I like the pink!”

He looks down at his pink polo, back across at her. Her eyes are sparkling in the darkness and he stuffs his face close to hers. Their noses bump. She uses it as allowance for a sneaky kiss, sticking her tongue into his mouth as far as it can go cheekily, before pulling back and grinning at him, teeth bright in the dark.

“Of course you like the pink, you minx,” he laughs, and she squeals in joy at his banter. He keeps her close and tight to his body so that she can’t wrestle away, but she doesn’t make an attempt to, even as her body shakes violently with laughter. She slips fingers into his belt loops, rubs their dicks together and mashes her tits against his front. He doesn’t groan, but he wants to, wants to lift her skirt up from where it hangs at her ankles and make a scene, slap her pale ass in front of anyone and everyone.

“Stop it!” She shrieks as his fingers move from her back to her sides, sliding them over her green top lightly to tickles her. He ceases his movements, but instead keeps her closer. He wishes he was drunker, could probably go to the bar and order a vodka soda, but he can’t imagine letting go of Katya when she’s so warm and so willing to be held by him. “Hey, Brian.”

Her yells have turned serious, and he looks back into her eyes from eyeing the bar. Her pupils have dilated in the dark, and she’s biting her bottom lip. She looks younger than when he met her, and he knows that it’s the absence of the jacket and pencil skirt, but it’s enchanting, how her forehead wrinkles up in the blue, green, red, of the spotlights and the white of the disco ball. 

“Yeah?” He responds. Her brows drop a little and her head cocks to one side, as if she’s pondering a great question. He sighs in preparation, knows well that he isn’t nearly drunk enough.

“Do you think we should date?” She asks it deadly serious, as if her life depends on it, and Brian’s heart swings up into his throat. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

Brian pulls back, releases her slightly to cough into his elbow. He can feel his blush grow and intensify, and her lips position themselves right above his ear. He waits patiently for her to yell over the music again.

“I think about your dick a lot. It’s so big, I always want to suck on it,” she says. “I dream about your dick, Brian.”

His head is pounding, and his stomach is clenching in on itself in the best way. She kisses his ear, then, hot and licking across the curves of cartilage. He shivers, unable to control himself, groans into the darkness and the bodies around them. A sweaty back presses up against his own, causing him to step forward, which just causes Katya to step onto his shoes, sway along with him to the music, lips moving to suck hard on his neck.

“Tell me what you think!” She yells, and he cups her face between his hands, kisses her so that their teeth rub together uncomfortably. He can feel her grinning, brings a pointer finger to hook in the side of her mouth. When he pulls back, he brings his lips to her ear, tickling his nose with her hair. He pushes it out of the way, grips it with his hand as he talks into her ear, to ensure she hears him.

“Why not?” 

She squeals, her arms fly outwards and then wrap around him again, her feet stomp down on his in her stupid boots, he hisses in pain and she kisses him on both cheeks. 

Her sweat is drowning him, their bodies squeak together where all bare skin meets. He holds her around her waist, not even bothering to grind against her, only keeping her body almost painfully tight against him. He can feel her humming along to Madonna, brings his hand back to the tiny curve of her stomach that’s grown bigger and more muscled since he saw her last, squeezing it between his fingers so that she pushes her dick against him, rubs across his thigh.

“Brian, please can we go?” She’s speaking at a normal volume but he can gather what she’s saying from reading her lips in blue light that makes her cheekbones disappear. He nods, gives up to her wishes, and she jumps off of his feet, grinning, pulls him by the hand to the exit. 

“Bye, bye, Ging,” she says to the bouncer, and the woman pats her on the head, kisses her cheek in farewell. Her eyes move to Brian and she squints, her nose wrinkles and Katya turns to stare him down, too. “Isn’t he cute? This is Brian.”

Ging looks him up and down, focusing in on his shoes and buttons of his shirt, and nods.

“The one you’ve been talking about,” Ging responds sagely. Katya nods in excitement, grabs her by the upper arm. “Looks alright. He’s good to you?”

“He’s huge. We’re dating now,” Katya replies, and Ging coughs as Katya releases her with a wheeze, takes Brian’s hand again to pull him to the direction of the bus stop.

When they’re finally sitting out in the muggy Dallas evening, less than an inch separating them on the bench, Brian turns to her where she’s already half through a cigarette. She raises her brows at him in curiosity, as if she hasn’t just strong-armed him into a (wanted) relationship in the timespan of less than fifteen minutes at a club. He rolls his eyes, sets his hand on her knee gently. He lets her smoke, but when she finishes her cigarette he wraps his hands around both of her wrists, opens her hands to link their fingers.

“What’s going on?” He asks. Her eyes are wide, honest, and he watches her swallow slowly. She puts her foot atop his again, rests her boot on his shoe. One of the spaghetti straps of her tank top is falling down her shoulder, and he moves their linked fingers to pull it back up for her. “Like, why are you asking me to date you now? You didn’t seem too interested months ago.”

She nods, keeps one hand linked with his but pulls another cigarette out of the mushed pack in her tiny purse, lights it between her dry lips. He waits patiently, knows her well enough from one previous meeting to understand that she won’t respond until she wishes to do so.

“I was, though. And then I missed you. And I promised myself I would ask you out for real if I ever saw you again, which I _didn’t_ think would happen, mind you, but I promised, and I saw you. So here we are!” She’s close to his face, the smoke choking him. She’s grinning, seems awfully pleased with her weak argument, but he doesn’t really know how to take it. She’s relying on her self-discipline to lead her along in the dating department, relying on old promises she made to that could just as well have changed.

But then she leans in and kisses his earlobe, licks across his buzzed head behind it quickly as the bus pulls up, and as he pays she keeps a hand in the back pocket of his pants, scratching her fingers rhythmically.

He waits for her to pay, too, holding onto the bar above his head as the driver moves along, as her quarters plink into the machine. He takes her hand as she thanks the driver profusely, yanks her away before she can engage her in further conversation about her route or what bus driving entails, exactly, how much she gets paid and if she thinks it’s fair.

She giggles behind him as he pulls her into the seat beside him. The bus is empty but for an old woman in the back corner, and he kisses Katya on the cheek sloppily when she plops down in the seat, half on top of him.

“You were looking for someone to go home with, hm?” She whispers it in his ear, teasing him by lightly tapping her fingers across his wrist, taking his arm hair and yanking it between her fingernails so that he hisses, grabs her hands and keeps them held tight on his thigh.

“Maybe. Not you,” he laughs. Her bottom lip sticks out just far enough for it to make him want to raw her, and he kisses her quickly to make her pull it back in. They’re headed to his apartment, and he feels a hot shock in remembrance of his attempts to make the place nicer, buying antique lampshades for nice lighting and getting a couple paintings done by a friend to hang on the living room wall. He hopes she likes it enough to keep coming back, since that seems to be her intent.

“You’re _so_ mean, Brian. Why are you so mean?” She’s pouting again and her eyes are sparkling with intense joy that makes him dizzy. Her bare shoulders are radiating heat, and he drops his cheek to rest it on her freckles there. Her shoulder is smooth, warm, and wonderful like he feels skin rarely is, so he twists his head downwards to kiss her collarbone gently. He can feel her breathing, and then her fingers slide across his head, rubbing across his buzzed hair.

“I’m not,” he says on her collarbone. She giggles and his lips move up and down with her breaths. She keeps rubbing his head, pressing her fingers into his skull. 

“What if I shaved my head. Do you think that would be cute? Like punk? I’m just scared it wouldn’t grow back,” she mumbles. She’s speaking like she doesn’t want the woman in the back to hear, and it sends shivers up his spine.

“I think you can do whatever you want,” Brian says. She giggles again, pinches his cheek and pulls him up by the elbow when they reach his stop.

“You’re sweet.” She thanks the bus driver again, resting a hand on her shoulder to emphasize how grateful she is that the woman has done her job, and then she’s practically skipping down the cracked sidewalk, wrapping her arm through his elbow and pulling him along with her.

He unlocks the door for them and her body is heavy on his the second they enter the apartment. He has deja vu, but instead of settling on the couch she pushes him to the kitchen, flips on the light switch on the tiny lamp on the table. It lights the room, and Brian stares at her ass in her skirt as she leans down to snoop in the fridge.

“Sorry, I haven’t eaten all day. You’re going to have to wait a second for sex,” she says, head farther in the fridge than it needs to be. Her top is riding up her back and he steps forward to place a hand on the section of hot, tan skin and spine that shows, and her muscles bend and twist beneath his palm. “Brian.”

“I’m waiting. You go ahead and find something to eat,” he says. She huffs loudly and pulls out a tupperware of artichoke dip, straightens abruptly to scan the counter for chips. 

When she finds them she picks them up, stalks over to the couch and sits down, right where he had her on his lap the last time. It’s surreal. She pulls her legs up and lets him sit beneath her feet, rests her sharp heels on his thigh. He puts his hands on both of her boots, unlaces them quickly and pokes the arches of her feet in her blue socks. Her knees twitch and he grabs hold on her toes to stop her from moving off of him.

The crackling of the bag of chips rings in his ears, and his fingers go to her smooth ankles above her socks. He scrapes at the skin there with his callouses. She groans around a mouthful of chips, scoops up more dip and swallows, eats the next chip as he pulls her socks down past her bony ankles. 

“Brian, you’re tickling me,” she mumbles. He grins, pulls her right sock off and taps her heel with his pointer finger. Her toes twitch, and he grips her small foot in one hand and brings her big toe, painted bright red, to his mouth, kisses it with his lips parted slightly, breathing hot air onto her skin.

Her whimper in reply makes his dick twitch, and he watches her slide her ass down the couch a little, take the tupperware off of her stomach and set it on the coffee table, do the same with the bag of chips resting in the place between her elbow and her side. He takes her toe into his mouth just as her arm is reaching across to drop the bag on the table and she drops it with a squeal, her other foot kicks up to knock him in the elbow, almost pulling her toe out of his mouth, but he bites down a little so that she whines, throws her head back against the armrest.

“Brian, I wanted to eat, fuck,” she pants. He opens his lips and pulls back, smacks a kiss against her arch. The bottoms of her feet are soft enough for him to notice and want to sob over them, but he kisses her again and drops her foot.

“You’re too pretty now, though. You wanted to fuck me so bad earlier,” he says. He’s whining. He’ll admit it, before God herself, that he’d make a scene for Katya’s dick in his mouth, her nipples rubbing across his stomach, her tongue over his asshole. 

He pulls her other sock off, kisses the top of her foot where she hasn’t shaved in a good while, good enough of a while that his heart skips a beat and his dick throbs. He groans, teeth against sharp, fragile bone, and she twitches again.

“Can I take your clothes off?” He asks. She reaches down to slap him gently on the head, and he gasps in faux indignation. She has her shirt off before he can do anything, and is unbuttoning her skirt, gesturing for him to pull it down her legs.

He does, and it catches on the curve of her hip for a second, pulls her thong down so that he catches a glimpse of the cut of her hips. She’s all the way hard, and he almost drops the denim skirt as she brings a hand down to scratch at her stomach.

He leans down, bites at her bellybutton, and her dick rubs against his chest as he does. She pants, and he reaches to to lube he’d set on the side table of the fucking living room couch before going out, preparing to see it later, when he returned home alone, and feel embarrassed and ten times lonelier than he did before he left the apartment for the night.

But she’s pulling it from his hand, cracking it open and dripping too much over his fingers, gesturing for his other hand with snapping fingers, almost frantically, to drip more over them. 

“In me,” she says, and he laughs a single gasp before wrapping one hand around her cock and ghosting over her balls with the other, tugging on her pubes so that she squeals, her toes poking his hip. He raises his eyebrows to get her to turn over and she does, lets him release her as she props herself up on her knees and elbows, forehead resting on the pillow. “Now, Brian!”

He cackles and slaps her ass once, which only causes her to arch her back more, push her ass into his face. The hair on the back of her thighs, light across her back and ass makes him groan, he forces himself to swallow a whole ton of spit before pulling her cheeks apart, settling his knees into the backs of her knees so that she doesn’t squirm away. Her body is familiar from his dreams, from his constant attempts to remember every single inch of her, from his obsessive masturbation to solely her tits for a three-week period. He can’t help but watch them heaving with her stomach for a moment, as she gets antsier.

“Come on! Come on, you’re being boring,” she borderline yells. Her voice is strained and he wants to sob, her legs are trembling under him. She’s so hard, his hand wraps back around her from behind and she’s throbbing, hotter than she ever was their first time, and she lets out a strangled sound between gritted teeth as he has two drenched fingers slip into her, at the same time. “Fuck!”

“You, you want me to stop?” Brian pants, his fingers paused, hardly inside her, his tongue on her ass cheek. It’s almost unbearable how soft it is, how the soft hair covering her entire body moves with his breath.

“No, oh my god, please,” she says. He pushes his fingers forward, twists and expands them, and she backs her ass back up onto them. He jerks her slowly, keeps kissing and biting her ass, until she’s clenching hard around him and falling forwards, coming across his couch and turning, pulling his fingers out of her.

She lies back against the pillow, beneath him, as she jerks him off. He sits on her stomach and grips her little breasts tightly in both of his hands, pinches and twists her nipples so that her hand jerks from side to side, twists on him, as she whines from the pain. 

He comes across her tits and neck, and she wipes it up with three fingers, sucks all three into her mouth at the same time as he stares down at her, mouth hanging open. Her eyes sparkle, and her fast breaths make his body rise and fall on top of her.

 

 

Katya takes dating extremely seriously. 

They spend nights talking on the phone, during the week when meeting up is too inconvenient with two full-time, temperamental jobs. Katya is observant and silly, whines for him to tell her about his day and listens so intently that Brian often feels laid bare when all he’s doing is speaking to her about programming and how boring it can be, how slow his shift went. He can feel her taking all of it in through the cord of the phone, with her breathing, little noises of acknowledgement and encouragement.

And she takes her own information dump on him just as seriously. She gently explains to him all of the intricacies of her job, all of the tasks she does (diligently, he gathers) and what they do to help the trans community in Dallas directly, how her side projects to combat militarism and childhood homelessness intertwine with her day job. 

And then, if it’s been a particularly rough day for either of them, she’ll drop her voice to a whisper and talk him off, dictate his movements and describe her own at such great lengths that he’s surprised he finds it hot, declarations of _I’m yanking on my pubes, fuck_ and _I’m so hard thinking of the taste of your asshole_. 

She’s all in, all the time, she visits him at work and waits for his lunch break in her car in the parking lot, listens to the radio until he comes out disgruntled from his boss’s directions and micromanaging, makes out with him for five minutes before passing over the lunch bag she’s packed for him, eating with him in relative silence. Sometimes she holds his hand, but she mostly just rests her head on his shoulder, quietly allows him to recharge.

She invites him to her work parties, introduces him to her friends and coworkers, and Brian grows close with them. He introduces her to some of his friends, too, but he doesn’t have many for the short time and extended work hours he’s been living in Dallas.

Katya’s friends are more than enough, however, and Brian finds himself texting the program manager at her work, Bob, almost daily. He’s lucky for it, that Katya seems to know everyone and have a good relationship with even people she doesn’t know. 

It lasts for six whole months before she sits him down on his couch and lights a cigarette. She has three ashtrays in his apartment, now, and all of them are filled nearly to the brim in her laziness. He doesn’t mind it, and he’s found out through some exciting bedroom escapades that involved her seated on the bed smoking as he sucked her off.

“So.” Her legs are crossed and she’s wearing the same dainty heels she was wearing the day they met. He wants to pull them off of her, kiss her calves and tickle beneath her knees, where she’s no doubt missed a spot shaving. She has a plaid shawl draped over her shoulders, green and red, and he wants to stuff his face in it. “Brian.”

He can hear the serious tone, knows what’s coming, or doesn’t really dare to think that he does. They have a camping trip planned for May, a week long. He doesn’t want to miss it. He doesn’t know why that is the first thing that crosses his mind. 

“Yes.” He looks her in the eyes, dark green in the dim light of the living room. She hasn’t moved in, but there are little reminders of her on almost every surface of his apartment, from her ashtrays to how she compulsively rearranges the magnetic poetry on his fridge every day she visits. Her dirty bras and thongs are consistently left on his floor, and prior to being washed they sit in a pile along with a few pairs of pantyhose that she insists stay, “for emergencies.” He has no desire to argue. 

“We’ve been dating for six months today,” she starts. He nods, and the hand that isn’t gingerly balancing her cigarette lands on his knee, bare skin on bare skin. She rubs her thumb across his leg hair. “And I like that a lot.”

He laughs despite himself, because she suddenly can’t seem to hold in her smirk, either.

“Shut up! Shut up! I’m trying to be serious, oh my god,” she laughs. Her red lips, the Russian Red he had picked out immediately on her, spread into a grin. She’s wearing a tight denim miniskirt so that her strong thighs are out, and a white button-up. Her nose is red from the cold, and her oversized denim jacket is hanging on the hook by the door.

“Be serious, then. Tell me,” he responds. He covers her hand with his own without thinking, only realizes when her thumb moves to rub over his knuckles.

“Okay,” her smile grows, her chin tucks into her chest a little and he fights off the urge to kiss the tiny rolls of her neck, the edge of her lips where she overlines so the line is bumpy, the tip of her oily nose. “Okay, I like you a lot. And I would like for this to continue.”

She stares at him, smiling, hair half up in a tortoiseshell banana clip, cigarette resting between her teeth and being held still by her tongue. Her eyes are bare, a single coat of yesterday’s mascara adorning her lashes. Her broad shoulders smell like her shampoo, and he lets his head fall to the one nearest him, kisses the flannel shawl. She sticks her cigarette in the ashtray and falls back against the couch with him, holds his face between her hands. 

He puts his hands on her stomach, scratches her shirt so that she laughs, squeezes her hips between his hands so that she whimpers around her cigarette. He straightens, figures he should respond in equal measure. Her eyes are bright, she pulls the cigarette from her lips and he has a flash of a desire to kiss her in the space between her thumb and pointer finger, where her dry skin is wrinkling.

“I would like for this to continue as well,” he whispers. Her grin grows, and she kisses him hard on the cheek. He knows that it’s to make sure that she leaves enough of a lipstick mark. “I know we were going to watch TV but can I just take you on a date instead?”

She laughs, pulls him closer. She’s all dressed up. Her hoop earring is cool against his cheek. 

“Can we finally put up the fucking tree in here when we get back, then?” She asks. He nods, pulls her up by the hands and holds out her jacket as she slips her arms in. He nearly falls watching her walk out the door, her thighs flexing beneath her pantyhose and steam coming from her mouth.

They eat downtown, Katya shoveling steak down at a disturbing pace and Brian getting buzzed on beers that she keeps snapping at the waiter for. Her cheeks are red and warm from her wine and her teeth shine in the light of the candle between them. He keeps inching his fingers past his glass and wrapping a single finger around Katya’s thumb, squeezing without a pattern. She orders them cake for dessert and tries to feed it to him obnoxiously, her fork poking against his closed lips and trembling with how she’s laughing hysterically, until he takes it from between her fingers and sets it back on the plate patiently.

He cuts himself off when he sees how drunk she is, and she continues to drink and giggle, making him roll his eyes but also shift in his seat, help her dig around in her wallet for her card and hand it to the waiter as she wheezes with her head thrown back in her chair. It’s too nice of a restaurant for it, but he allows it. She deserves a mink stole that she can throw around her shoulders, with the way that she keeps flinging her flannel shawl over her collarbone, flipping her long blonde hair with it, once she takes it down from the clip.

It’s noticeably colder when they leave, and she cackles as she cuddles up against him as they walk to the bus stop. He wraps his arm around her shoulder and keeps her close, half worried that she’ll try to run out into traffic just for kicks. She doesn’t, and he can feel her shivering under his arm, through his leather jacket. 

“Brian. The tree! The tree. I haven’t had a big one since I was a kid, I just put a tiny, _tiny_ one on the table at my place…” she drifts off as the bus pulls up, but starts back up once they’re in the heated interior, hands clasped together. He sees them in the reflection of the window, in the blackness of the night around them, and has a moment of disbelief. Katya sees it, too, and laughs as she kisses him on the cheek. There are Christmas lights around the windows in the bus, and her hair gets caught on one. He untangles it for her as she loops her ankle around his. “I love Christmas, I’ve got your present already.”

His cheeks warm and he grins at her. She pokes his cheek, digging her nail in the tiniest bit, rubbing to smear her lipstick stain.

“I’ve got you one, too.” His heart speeds up thinking of his three presents for Katya, on the top shelf of his closet in a shopping bag. He knows that she’ll start digging for them drunkenly once they return home. He doesn’t mind at all. “Or… three, actually.”

“Aw, Brian,” she whines, kisses him quickly and looks around, squinting at the other passengers. He can tell that she’s drunk enough for her eyes to lose a little focus. He grips her hand tighter, scans over the freckles on her face. “ _Brian_.”

“What.” She squirms, closer to him over the middle of the double seat, pushing part of his ass off of his side. “What!”

“You’re making me feel bad. I only got you one,” she pouts, and he shakes his head.

“You just bought us dinner,” he whispers. Other passengers are looking at them, a young mother with a baby in a stroller sitting across from them. Katya huffs disbelievingly. The festive lights are making her skin glow. “They aren’t big, I promise. Just like, let me spoil you or something.”

She squeals, barks a laugh, and digs her fingers into his knee so that he hisses in pain. She releases him but brings her hand up to his face, pinches his cheek. His stomach is heavy with heat, and his eyes float to her little earlobes, how they stretch a bit with her earrings. 

“Alright. You like that, me being a pretty woman.” Her voice is soft enough for him to be the only one that hears her, her lips moving and words hardly coming out. He nods, bites his bottom lip, and the bus halts at the end of his block. Katya pushes him out of the seat and guides him out the door, stomps behind him in her heels all the way up the stairs to his door.

She lets him dig the box of lights and ornaments out of the closet as she readies a bottle of wine for the two of them, and is halfway finished with her first glass once he’s wrestled the tree out from behind all of his clothes. She grins at it, lying on the floor bundled up, and holds up a finger to pause him as she sets her glass on the coffee table, jogs to the bedroom and comes out in one of his shirts and a pair of jeans, lipstick reapplied. 

She’s rolled his jeans up so that they don’t cover her feet for how long they are and she’s in his socks, too, she has one of his flannels with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, unbuttoned over his Dolly Parton tour tee. She wiggles her eyebrows at him and takes another sip of wine, tucks her hair behind her ears and starts opening the branches of the tree, yanks it up and props it so that it won’t fall. 

They set all of it up as well as they can, getting drunker and sillier as the night goes on. Katya ends up tripping over the strand of lights twice, and Brian catches her the third time, holds her tightly around her torso and rights her, and she twists around in his arms to make out with him, the plastic needles and branches scraping his wrists.

Eventually they’ve got all of it completed, with only one singular broken glass ornament, and Katya pours out the rest of the bottle into her glass. Brian is sobering up quickly, and he gladly accepts Katya climbing onto his lap on the couch, in his soft clothes, her bony ass digging into his thigh and her hands sliding over his chest again and again. 

The tree is lit and the apartment around them is dark, bar for the little lamp on the kitchen counter. Katya’s feet squeeze between his opposite thigh and the couch, and she rests her lips against his cheek, her hands on his pecs. She hums Jingle Bells and he pats her side along with it, until she breaks out into laughter and he uses the moment to pull her into a kiss.

She tastes like wine and candy canes, she had pulled two out of her purse for them sometime during the night, the green ones. Her tongue lathes over his teeth, she pants into his mouth and he grips her butt in both hands. She taps his nose with a finger and winks, and then she’s kneeling on the floor in front of him before he can even comment on it, her hand pressing against his dick in his jeans. He places his own hand over it, feels over the wrinkled skin of her knuckles and presses down against her veins, watches them get blocked off by his fingers and rush with blue blood again as he releases them. She watches him, blinking slowly.

“So can I suck your dick?” She rasps. He laughs, holds both hands high in surrender so that she unzips his fly, scratches his stomach with her nails and runs her fingers across his skin and hair over and over, licks and bites at his winter weight, groans against him and leaves waxy red lipstick on the elastic of his underwear.

Her cold fingers pull at the waistband of his pants and underwear hard to maneuver them off, and once they’re around his thighs she props her torso between his knees and puts her hands on him.

She’s obsessed with his dick, at the risk of sounding like an asshole in his own brain. She’s sucked him off in the car, in the parking lot before grocery shopping, citing that she simply wanted him in her mouth. Sometimes, she’ll be on top of him as they make out and she’ll put a hand on his dick and start to drool, spit gathering in the corners of her mouth and dripping down his neck, just imagining being able to place him on her tongue.

She licks circles across his pubes, and he grows harder and harder, bumps against her chin and neck and drips down over her adam’s apple, making her collarbones shiny. She slips her hair behind her ears again and sniffs, kisses the side of his dick and swallows him down, moans loudly and drunkenly around him once he’s filling her mouth and thrusts up into her a couple of times involuntarily. 

He can hear her groaning his name around his cock, and he watches her suck him down and pull back off to lick and kiss over him. His entire body is wound from hours of edging, of Katya tapping his foot with her own under the restaurant table and tickling him as he wrapped an arm around her waist to guide her out. 

His hands are shaking and he lifts them to pull her hair back behind her ears as it’s fallen forwards. It’s tangled in the back and on the sides, making clumps stick up and migrate upwards with static. She whimpers as he pinches her cartilage, and his dick twitches in her hot mouth at the sound. 

She’s staring up at him, her fingers are slid through his hair and are tugging faintly. Her eyes are watering and he’s been at the back of her throat for a good thirty seconds, and she blinks rapidly up at him, mascara gathering on her bottom lid. She nods, wiggles her tongue against him, and he taps his fingers across her cheekbone and cheek to quickly plug her nose.

She gasps around him and moans, her sharp nose beneath his fingers is making him throb, making his dick ache so much in her mouth that he’s sure she can feel it rise in temperature. Her eyes squeeze shut and blink open wide again, she chokes him down and gags around him, which only serves to bring him closer to the edge.

She pulls off of him, gasping, and tears flow from her eyes the moment she does it. He releases her nose and wipes them, the gritty mascara dripping down his fingers.

“Keep your fingers-” He pinches her nose again, can’t stop himself when her voice is so fucked out. Her legs are splayed wide on the floor, and she digs her nails into his calves as she takes him back into her mouth. 

Her eyes are rolling back into her head and her lipstick is everywhere, across his dick and on her cheeks, and he’s coming down her throat as she groans, pulls off of him fast enough that he comes on her lips, too, her cheeks, mixing in with her tears and makeup.

“Fuck, Katya,” he whispers, lifts her up with both hands under her armpits, kisses her with his come dripping from her mouth and making her face sticky. She whines against his tongue, pinches his nipples through his shirt, reaches beneath her butt to pull his pants back up and tuck him inside. He knows that she’s already come, can tell from how gingerly she sits on him, and he lifts her up, carries her to the bedroom with her finger in his mouth and her feet kicking as she laughs at how easily he can pick her up.

He uses takes two weeks of unused vacation time to sit at home, and Katya takes less hours in trade for lugging stacks of papers to his apartment to sift through, lists of numbers to call. She spends hours at his place working, but his entire body warms up three whole degrees just thinking about how she’s taken the time off just to stay with him, for the Christmas season. She stands chattering away on the phone to contacts in New York, wiggling around to the Christmas music on the radio, kissing Brian as he moves past her to get food. 

They watch the news together at night, Katya grunting and rolling her eyes, Brian rubbing her feet and nodding along to her rants that he doesn’t even think that she, herself, is following. She rambles about legislation and he listens for as long as he can, and then she lets him put on Dolly Parton and twirl her around in circles, shrieking when she nearly spins too far and knocks the tree over.

Brian wakes up on Christmas day with Katya sweaty and mumbling in her sleep, lips wet against his shoulder. He wiggles her off, turns so that he faces her in the dark room and can see the alarm clock. It’s eight a.m, and he sighs, cups her face in his hand and pushes her hair back from her eyes and where it’s stuck to her lips.

Her eyelashes flutter and then open wide, blink to wake up. He stares at her, his head is pounding from all of the whiskey he downed the night before, and she pokes him right in the nose so that he squeezes his eyes shut.

“You asshole,” he says.

“Merry Christmas? No merry Christmas, Katya? Fuck you,” she snaps. She jumps off the bed and pulls off her tank and boxers, pulls on underwear and the same pair of his jeans that she’s commandeered. She buttons her sweater on top, and when she turns back around to him he beckons her over. She giggles and climbs onto the bed again, kisses him with terrible morning breath. “Come on.”

She’s off of him and out of the room before he can register it, and then she’s plugging the lights of the tree in and pushing his present into his arms, two boxes wrapped much nicer than his are and taped together, a big pink bow on top.

“Open it. Oh my god,” she groans as he works the tape off of the pink wrapping paper nicely, folds the paper up beside him. He giggles like a kid as he opens the massive lava lamp in the bigger box, an orange and green one that’s significantly taller than his forearm is long.

“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous,” he laughs. She squeezes his shoulder, scratches him with her nails. 

“It’s for your desk, your sad little desk,” she says, and shoves the second present into his hands. He can tell how pleased she is at giving him something he enjoys, he can see the smugness in her smile and her bright green eyes. “This one is better, though.”

It’s a picture frame the size of his head, and the photo that’s blown up inside it is of Katya. She isn’t looking at the camera, she’s looking off to the side of the studio she must have gone to for it, and her waist is bent, with tiny rolls of skin beneath her hand on her hip. It’s a ridiculously casual, informal, beautiful pinup photo: she’s wearing red mesh lingerie and her dick is half-hard, curving off towards her hip. One of her bare feet is propped on the wall behind her.

She has one hand in her hair, holding most of it atop her head. It’s tangled and his fingers ache wanting to yank on it. Her nipples are dark behind the bra.

“Fuck.”

She giggles next to him, pinches his inner elbow. He tears his eyes away from the picture to drown in hers. She’s blushing harder than he’s ever seen her, and he kisses her sloppily, pulls her in by the back of her neck and tugs on her hair as he does it.

“Katya, oh my god,” he whispers. She laughs again, under her breath. Their noses are resting against each other. “You’re beautiful. That’s beautiful.”

Her blush grows in the dim light of the tree, and he spares her embarrassment by setting the frame and kissing her quickly, standing and cracking his back on his way to the tree.

“And here.” He drops her presents in her lap. She digs into them immediately, but his hands on hers stop her. “You’re going to have to be careful.”

She rolls her eyes, huffs, but unwraps the first slowly on her lap. She opens the small box to the diamond necklace Brian had bought two months ago after work, spotting it in a window and purchasing it on the spot without really realizing it. He wraps it around her neck and clasps it for her, and her fingers slide over his dick in his pajama pants but he pulls them off gently, sets her hand on the other gifts.

“Come on. Now it’s your turn to come on,” he says. Her second gift is a big, minimalist planner that has large sections for notes every single day, simply because he’s sick of scrubbing notes off of her inner forearms in the shower and the panic she feels when she forgets something.

She laughs at him, pulls him closer so that her arm is linked with his to open the last gift box. She takes a sharp gasp and slaps him on the knee as she lifts the flimsy bra with one finger. It’s black lace, and the thong that matches gets crumpled in her fist along with some of the expensive wrapping paper in the box and the bow that was tied around it. 

“You fucking asshole, how much did you spend? I want to fuck you so bad right now,” Katya breathes. Brian laughs and pinches her cheek, jumps from the couch and practically skips to the kitchen to start the coffeemaker, Katya on his heels squealing and trying to slap his ass. She catches up to him at the kitchen counter, corners him with her sharp hips tickling him, stares him down with a smirk before kissing him harder than she ever has. Her diamond necklace sparkles against her collarbones.


End file.
